Free Orphan of Mythcorp by R.S. Darling

someone
reopens it. When that happens, it will be up to us to decide if the one who opens
it is the right man for the job.”
    “ Or woman, you want to be PC about it,”
I quipped.
    “ No,” Izzy said. “A woman would not be
dumb enough to open that Pandora’s Box. Happy hunting, Morgan.”

Chapter 10
    Sanson
    Mom and Pop conked out at 9:00, Pop from his
meeting with Jack Daniels, Mom from her affair with Miss Cooking
Cherry. A night like any other.
    Except I was heading out to break into a
public building, to steal classified documents.
    Anything to get my curse
lifted .
    I’d Gated the weather channel on the Net:
Forty-two degrees this April evening. When your continued ability
to remain upright depends on manually regulating your body temp,
you pay attention to the ambient air. Before stepping outside I
chugged a whole bottle of nuked Nanex.
    The heated supplement would raise my temp a
good six or seven degrees. Keep my body from seizing up for the
night.
    The 407 bus runs till midnight, tracing
the circumference of Alpha Circle,
80 th Street to
151 st Street. My house on
89 th was a good two blocks
from the nearest bus stop. I checked the chrono on my left wrist.
“Quarter to eleven. Cutting it close, you yahoo,” I chastised
myself. I’d have to hump it down to the little glass depot on the
corner of 87 th and
Alpha.
    Running when you’re dead is a real drag—it
could kill you.
    I looked up at the black sky over Philicity.
Wondered what it would be like to live in the country, or the
suburbs, anywhere other than a metropolis. They say you can see
stars in the hills. I turned on my heels and started jogging down
the street.
    At the end I turned right, jogged
passed Peter’s, the corner catchall store, continued on to
88 th . I did not gasp for air
(I don’t technically need to inhale; the nanites provide all the
oxygen I need) but I could see wisps of breath before me as I
jogged on. I crossed the street, reached
87 th , saw the depot about a
hundred yards ahead. The thermal on my right wrist read 64. I’d
gained six degrees from the Nanex, lost four already.
    Hopefully the breaking and entering part of
my evening would prove less stressful.
    I slowed as I neared the empty depot. On the
white plastic bench I checked my chrono. Two minutes to spare. Man
I was good. As I waited I began my visual inspection, checking my
body for signs of swelling, bruising, and, God forbid, busted
bones. Everything looked good.
    But for all I knew I’d sprained an ankle or
pulled a muscle and would fall flat on my face later.
    The 407 arrived, humming along down the
street right on schedule. A screech of brakes and a squeak of the
door and I was in. An elderly woman, pudgy with scraggly gray hair
eyed me as I boarded. She didn’t look away even when I returned her
stare.
    I plopped down in the back seat, set my
backpack beside me. Halfway through the job. My thermo caught my
eye, it was blinking. “Sixty degrees,” I groaned. The hypospray gun
was in my pack, but taking it out in public never goes over well,
especially not with some goggling old bag watching my every move. I
should’ve checked the thermo back at the depot, darn it. The trip
to the records building would take eight minutes. I could tough it
out.
    Maybe.
    I let the electronic drone of the engine and
the whine of the wheels on the pavement wash over me. A few minutes
later my thermo started beeping. Warning me to take my injection
and quit caring what other people thought. Who cares if they know
I’m a zombie?
    Most yahoos had probably read about me and
Dr. Wilmuts experimental treatment in the Philicity Times a couple
years back, anyway.
    Pressing the little red button on the side of
the thermo may have shut off the alarm, but the digital readout—59
degrees—was still furiously blinking red.
    Some guitar fluff fluttered down from
ceiling speakers. This trip was really starting to get on my
nerves. And the old bag was still staring. A few minutes lat